


sometimes far too long for snakes

by brophigenia



Series: the one with the vampires [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ghost Noah Czerny, Ghost Voyeurism, Half-Vampire Adam, Half-Vampire Gansey, Half-Vampires, M/M, Masturbation, Ronan Lynch Has No Chill, Ronan Lynch: Vampire Slayer, Vampires, bc everyone is in love with everyone, lookin @ u noah, only semi-sexual, poly gangsey pretty much, some light choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: He let himself back into Monmouth on silent feet and was betrayed by the shrill squeak of the hinges on the front door that he’d been telling Gansey to oil for weeks and weeks. The lights were out, but then, they would be— it was late. Later than late, really. Gansey hadn’t cleaned up after himself in the kitchen; the countertop space around their blender was strewn with empty blood bags and supplements and used-up vials of the holy water that Ronan sourced in bulk from the priest at St. Agnes. Father Rodrigo never asked why he needed so much of the stuff, and for that, Ronan was grateful.(AKA, Gansey and Adam are half-vampires, Ronan was raised by the world's foremost vampire hunter, Niall Lynch, and Noah is a ghost. With sexy results.)





	sometimes far too long for snakes

**Author's Note:**

> Party like a rockstar, guys. Let's write this vampire fic like it's 2006 again. 
> 
> Leave me some comments because it fuels my self esteem.

He let himself back into Monmouth on silent feet and was betrayed by the shrill squeak of the hinges on the front door that he’d been telling Gansey to oil for weeks and weeks. The lights were out, but then, they would be— it was late. Later than late, really. Gansey hadn’t cleaned up after himself in the kitchen; the countertop space around their blender was strewn with empty blood bags and supplements and used-up vials of the holy water that Ronan sourced in bulk from the priest at St. Agnes. Father Rodrigo never asked _why_ he needed so much of the stuff, and for that, Ronan was grateful. The collection plate was always full, and that was what the priest cared about.

Prokopenko’s bite throbbed on his neck, and Ronan knew his nape was flushed scarlet even as it prickled with the awareness that he was being watched.

He needed a shower.

It was Noah watching him; he knew, because Gansey’s bed was empty, unslept in, and the Pig was gone from the lot. He was probably with Sargent, somewhere. Doing shit he shouldn’t be doing. Tempting fate. Tempting himself. Tempting _her._

But then, really, Ronan couldn’t talk about _temptation._  

“Did you have fun?” Noah asked, unseen, his voice so close that Ronan had to stop himself from flinching. That was the problem about being friends with a ghost- they were fucking _creepy._

“Tons.” Ronan mumbled, and rubbed a hand over the shaved top of his head, the prickles catching on his palm and making him shiver. He was still half-hard; even the sensation of being watched by a ghost was not enough to quell his lust. He could feel Prokopenko’s mouth on his throat still. Could remember viscerally the way his teeth sunk in. The sounds Kavinsky made when it was his turn to be _fed upon,_ groaning with his thighs trembling like a _whore._

Oh, he was so hot for it. Ronan shifted where he stood, and resisted the urge to adjust himself in his jeans, which had dried too-stiff and uncomfortable. He rummaged in the laundry bin for a half-clean towel. His hands trembled with how badly he wanted to jerk himself off.

God, he was fucked up.

Noah didn’t speak again, but Ronan knew he was still watching. It made every movement feel more deliberate; he didn’t call the ghost boy out on the voyeurism because he never had, and did not feel like upsetting that balance _now,_ of all times. It was easier to pretend he didn’t know, and for Noah to pretend he didn’t know that Ronan knew. It was easy to turn the water in the shower on, as hot as it would go. It was easy to allow the blood to be washed from his skin even as he stroked himself, hard and fast and with gritted teeth, forehead leant against the tile.

It was easy to come on a ragged, bitten-off shout that wanted to form a name, or two names, or three, or four. Ronan’s head was dizzied by all of his vice, all of his sins; he scarcely knew which of the objects of his wrathful lust he thought of at the moment of orgasm, only that it was wrong of him to do so.

He was so fucked up.

Towel around his waist, he found that he was _really_ not alone when he left the humid confines of their bathroom; the kitchen counter had been straightened back up, Gansey’s boat shoes were in a haphazard pile by the door, and the boy himself was sitting at his desk, soft in his _Aglionby Crew_ sweater, hair a mess.

He was all too beautiful, like an image of Saint Sebastian. Long-suffering and perfectly-formed.

“You’re home.” Ronan observed neutrally, making an effort to be somewhat unobtrusive.

Gansey sighed, knuckling at his face like a tired child; he almost seemed human, except for the paleness of his eyes, deep-seated purple rings like inky thumbprints in the hollows below them. When it was late and he was tired, it was harder for him to keep control. Harder not to let the carefully-drawn mask of humanity slip down, reveal him for what he was.

(A damned thing. A half-creature of the night, pitiable.)

An ache formed in Ronan’s throat when he looked at Gansey as it always did, when Gansey allowed his exhaustion to be seen. It was hard for him to sleep. Hard for him to do anything, when he was like this, gums bleeding from the shifting canines and body screaming for proper nourishment. He’d gone six years like this, the longest of anyone Ronan had ever learned about in his father’s journals or Declan’s half-discreet inquiries. Before, Ronan would’ve scoffed at the idea No one could have forseen Gansey, whose will was strong as iron, resisting the urge either to tear out someone’s throat or to kill himself to escape the endless torment for _six years._

“Do you want me to mix you up a drink?” Ronan murmured, trying to be as inobtrusive as possible. Gansey blinked up at him over the rims of his wire-framed glasses, hand never stopping as he took notes in his field journal. What it meant was _do you need to be controlled?_

“Not tonight,” Gansey grimaced, free hand ghosting over his stomach. This meant _I can’t bear it right now._ His eyes narrowed and found the bruised bitemark on the side of Ronan’s throat. He swallowed thickly, and turned bodily away. A dismissal. The line of his shoulders was taut.

(In theory, it should’ve been Ronan with the reins in their relationship, keeping Gansey, who at any given time wanted to tear out the throats of everyone in the room, on the leash. _Controlled_

In actuality, Ronan had been _Gansey’s_ for as long as he’d known him.)

Ronan nodded, though it was an unseen gesture, full of nerves, and slipped off to his bedroom, leaving Gansey to the moonlight and the yellowish illumination of his heavy bankers lamp, head bowed over some tome of antiquity or another. No doubt scouring the thing over for any mention of Glendower, or necromancy, or _vampirism._ His appetite for knowledge was voracious; Ronan thought privately sometimes that it was a surrogate for his bloodlust.

Noah was waiting for him on the bed, laid out very still and staring up at the ceiling where, on a rare, lighthearted day, Gansey had affixed a poster of Keifer Sutherland in _The Lost Boys._ It had been a practical joke, and Ronan had laughed in relief over it more than at any real humor, Gansey as joyful as any normal young man might be.

“You think there’s a way back?” Noah asked him finally, hours after Ronan had laid down beside him, wordless and just as exhausted as Gansey had looked but unable to sleep, unwilling to dream.

Ronan didn’t reply, only grunted and turned onto his side, facing away from Noah.

He didn’t know what he thought. Gansey was _so sure_ that Glendower could reverse the half-change, could save both him and Adam from their cold fate. Gansey had faith; Ronan did, too, but _his_ faith mostly centered on the conviction that there was a God in heaven, and that consorting with demons put him at the bottom of God’s _to do_ list. Unless it was to be smote into dust, Ronan was pretty damn sure that God was going to leave him to this hell of his own making.

Thinking of hell made his hands clammy, but his adrenaline rush had died hours ago and he fell asleep like that, content enough to go down into his nightmares without much fuss.

He woke late in the day, with Adam Parrish above him, lips curled in something that looked like disgust but wasn’t.

“What is that?” Adam asked, clipped, and Ronan didn’t have to be a mind reader or a commander of satanic power to know what he was talking about.

“What it looks like, genius.” He snapped back, and pressed his hand over the constellation of puncture wounds where he’d allowed Prokopenko to _bite_ him. The mark of his surrender, of his giving it up like a worse kind of hedonist than Kavinsky was, because Kavinsky hadn’t been raised by Niall Lynch. Whatever his many faults, Joseph Kavinsky could never be the kind of hypocrite that Ronan was.

Adam’s irises were as colorless as milk; where on Gansey it seemed ridiculously dichotomous and eerie, Adam’s features were somehow suited for the look, his thin, pink lips not out-of-place next to his fangs. If Gansey was St. Sebastian, Adam Parrish was the Archangel Michael, ready for war.

“I can’t fucking _believe you,”_ Adam hissed, and he was gloriously furious, and Ronan was so fucked up, because he’d never been so beautiful. He tore Ronan’s hand away and replaced it with his own, scrambling up to crouch over Ronan without even thinking about it, the change coming over him like a shudder. He was not _Adam Parrish, control freak honors student._

He was _Adam Parrish, halfling vampire,_ and Ronan shouldn’t be hard at the sight of those fangs bared but he was, he was, he burned under his skin like he was already in hell and he _wanted._ He pushed up against Adam’s grip on his throat, bared his own blunt-edged teeth. Wanted Adam to hurt him. Wanted Adam to keep touching him.

“You jealous?” He spat out into the ever-narrowing space between their faces, egging Adam on. “C’mon, Parrish, do something about it.” Adam’s grip tightened a fraction. Ronan knew his face would be red. He was pressing into the bruises that Prokopenko had left, hard enough that they’d be overwritten with the shape of Adam’s hand.

He’d hate himself for it. When he looked at Ronan and saw the memory of this violence upon his skin for weeks, he’d hate himself.

It was this thought that cut through Ronan’s selfishness, his _need._ He couldn’t do this to Adam. Not like this.

It wasn’t hard to buck Adam off- he’d grown up with Niall Lynch as his father, after all. He could throw off a vampire in his fucking sleep. It was the matter of a quick twist of his body and a well-placed fist to the solar plexus. Adam fell to the floor with a clatter, and then Gansey was there, hauling him up and away with the kind of fretful-but-unsurprised look that told Ronan he’d been the one to spill the beans to Adam about Ronan’s latest… _injury._

Adam shook off Gansey’s grip after he’d had a second to compose himself, walls coming back down over his face until he was the picture of an elegant, smooth-talking young Republican that he’d ever been.

Ronan loved him.

“Fuckin’ _vampires!”_ Ronan spat, throwing a rude gesture that Adam only rolled his eyes at, cold as ice.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with _fucking vampires,_ Lynch.” He said coolly, and then was gone, leaving Ronan to snarl like a beast and fling a half-empty, skunked bottle of beer after him, shattering it on the wall by the door. Adam didn’t even flinch. If Ronan had wanted to hit him, he would’ve.

“Well, that could’ve gone better, old sport.” Gansey mumbled, and then wandered off, presumably to build a scale model of St. Agnes or gossip with their nonexistent neighbors about Ronan’s recent foray into fangbanging.

Swearing, Ronan rooted in his bedside table for his cell phone, thumbing it on with an aggressive mash of the power button. _Low Battery,_ the screen flashed.

**3rd in 15. make it a challenge. you owe me.**

He hadn’t even stuffed his feet into his boots before the phone chirruped, signaling a response.

**u got it bby,** K had texted back, **c u on th streetz mthfcker.**

"Fuckin' vampires," Ronan muttered, and slammed out the front door, intent upon the BMW. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com i MEAN IT


End file.
